Chapter 82: Brother Wilhelm

"Blessed be the Dream."

Music

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You pick through the trees and flowers. The green, the gold, the blue. You are always tired— always longing for rest, for sleep, and for the comfort of your God— but you cannot rest now. You have someone to protect. Someone to serve. Someone's will to uphold. A man that you would follow to the end of the world, if he even dared suggest such a thing.

There are two men before you. One is your guide, your mentor, and your Father. The other reflects the green, the gold, the blue.

You are a priest of the Church of Dream, and you have risked your life to aid them.

It was three weeks ago to the day when you last left Somerilde. Father Wilhelm trusted you and your brothers alone to accompany him. You trust him with your life and soul. He is your father, your mentor, and your guide.

He was quick to tell you how confident he was in your devotion, and he has always meant it when he's praised your faith. You do not want to disappoint him.

The fact that Father Anscham abandoned his post— abandoned his own clergy— disturbs you far more than his appearance.

His appearance. Is it Mercy that he's still alive?

You know he should wear his scars with pride. For all of the Gods to work through a man is nothing short of a miracle. For them to work through a man so many times— for him to remain in one piece— makes you wonder if he himself is to be a figure of worship. He may be worn and so thin that he's collapsed off of your palfrey several times during your journey, but you recognize his strength. He is unbearably strong, and terrifying in his devotion.

You've done as best as you could with your brothers to see to his health, and to grant him rest, but even through Dream he's fought you all. There is a sickness in his mind. There is a sickness in his soul. You know he has courted with demons. Men and women go missing in the ruins each year, and any who return come back scarred beyond recognition.

He is not so special. He must have known the risks when he left.

You are not trying to judge him. You knew the risks when you left, too. You did not hesitate to embark on your mission. Not for a second. You and your brothers— sworn to secrecy, to upholding the blessing of Dream— set out in the dead of night. You've anticipated every windfall, and interpreted all danger. You walk with His blessing.

You have walked through the wilderness under the dead of night, contending with every demon that has crossed your path in the name of saving the Father of the Church of Mercy from utter ruin and despair. Father Wilhelm told you he would not be able to make it back alive without all of your aid.

You've always trusted him.

Your faith continues to be rewarded. You can't help but utter your thanks as the treeline finally parts, and Father Wilhelm's vacation home comes into view. It's meant to be used in Grace: The season of Mercy.

"Blessed be the Dream. Blessed be the night." It is day, but this close to the Folorast mountains, there is still snow in Harvest. Your father rarely visits here outside of the warmest of seasons, but he knew no one would dare venture here this time of year.

He is terribly wise. You hope, one day, to be more like him.

The man at your back— on your palfrey, without a shred of fat on his body— begins to shiver as you approach the snow. You throw a blanket around him, and another, as you all draw nearer. He's been forced to rest for nearly a week. A great deal of the psychosis, the anxiety, the tremor, the wasting and the blood has fallen from his frame. There's still that unhinged look in his eyes as they radiate with divinity, but there's improvement. You have faith.

You desperately want all of your efforts to have been worth something.

With your brothers' aid— leaving Father Wilhelm to attend to Father Anscham— you all ready their quarters. The windows are unshuttered, letting the light of Mercy into the retreat. There's a faint, golden glow over the spacious stone, the countless rugs, and the paintings adorning the walls. There are countless holds for candles, and so many chairs and beds that it's difficult to walk in places. The home is rather small— intended to only house Father Wilhelm and a guest— so it is a matter of minutes before the five of you clear off the webs and light the hearth within the main hall.

Only a handful of rooms are left to the building. You work silently and cautiously, not wanting to disturb anyone's rest. There is no one else here, but it's a matter of habit. You and your Brothers all separate, attending to your duties wordlessly: turning the mattresses, dusting the shelves, sweeping the webs.

You take Father Wilhelm's room, removing every painting from the walls along the way as he had requested. He explicitly said to give the Father of the Church of Mercy a respite from everything— even the Gods. You slide them under his bed. The colossal frame sits in the center of the room, and rests so deeply against the floor that you have to unshoulder Father Anscham's things for a moment.

Open the windows. Clear the paintings. Sweep the webs.

You've always had a fear of spiders. You jump reflexively. A scream rises to your throat. A spider so small as to have utterly escaped your notice crawls along Father Anscham's things. You swat it without hesitation, heart racing until you confirm the kill.

Your pulse is in your throat, as you drag the smear of its body along the side of a handkerchief.

You look around, embarrassed. No one seems to have seen you.

Your eyes fall to Father Anscham's bag, the glint of gold, and the black. It's settled beside the sorcerery adorning his shield, his strange weapon, and the cane that was obviously given to him by a demon.

Sin seizes you. The desire to see. The desire to know.

You look to his things, and look back around Father Wilhelm's room. It's vacant, save for his smoking chair, the colossal bed, his cigar boxes, and his painting supplies.

You look back to Father Anscham's things. His bag. You knocked it open, swatting at the spider.

It still feels like a demon is on you, as you catch a glimpse at the corner of a journal.